Thistle & Weeds
by TheDoctorHarkness
Summary: John Watson has taken it upon himself to care for his sister, Abigail, a young woman that has been institutionalised for years. Both siblings must learn to deal with the stark changes that accompany such a decision; especially when a certain consulting detective decides to disrupt their lives further. [Sherlock/OC. Starts ASiP. Rated for Language & Some Subject Matter.]
1. Getting Out

**Only Disclaimer For This Story: I OWN Abigail THAT IS IT. and if i do any additional cases not on John's blog :-p**

**A/N: Okay, i've finally jumped on the damn bandwagon. i'm writing a Sherlock fic (holy _crap!_) and, honestly, i'm just writing this for myself, but i hope that some of you will like this. it's only a starting chapter, yes, but i've got two others already written, so YAY.  
the endgame of this story _should _be Sherlock/oc, but i don't know. Rupert Graves is a pretty attractive man. Screw age differences.  
**

**Review if you like. Sorry for any mistakes; unbeta-ed. Enjoy.**

* * *

After waking from a dream, that was far more a memory than it was a dream, and making himself tea, John Watson sat down in front of his laptop, the screen already open to his _blank _blog page.

_Ring! … Ring! … Ring!_

John glanced at the lit screen of his mobile and gave a small groan when he saw who was calling. "Hello?"

"_Have you seen her?"_

He rolled his eyes, "'Hi, John. How are you?' 'Oh, hello, Harry. I'm fine thanks!'"

Harry Watson scoffed on her side of the line, _"Yeah, all right. Have you seen her?"_

"Seen _who_, Harry?"

"_Your sister, idiot."_

John gave a long-suffering sigh and rested his head in the palm of his left hand, "Abby is your sister, too, Harry."

"_She may be a relative, but she is _not _my sister." _Harry's voice was scathing as she spoke, and John idly wondered if she'd been nipping at the alcohol – even if it was only nine in the morning.

"No, Harriet, I haven't been to see Abby, yet. Have you?" As soon as the question was out of his mouth, he marvelled at the idiocy of it.

"_Of course not. _You're _the one that insists on her having visitors." _She said, and it was taking every ounce of John's self-control not to hang up on her the longer the phone call went on.

"I don't understand why you won't visit her. I'm sure she'd love to see you at least once, Harry."_ God only knows why,_ is what he didn't say. Harry had never been the kindest soul to Abby growing up, even though the youngest Watson all but _worshipped_ the very ground Harry walked on; some business about believing that Abby had been adopted, and wasn't actually a Watson – it was all very stupid, and John had grown up being the mediator whenever Harry made Abby cry.

"I _wouldn't love to see her." _They were both silent for a long minute, John's disapproval clear even over the phone. Harry sighed, her tone gentler now, though it was clear she was annoyed with John's continued lack of support on the matter of Abigail Watson. _"Listen, John. You know how I feel on the subject, and I'll always be happy to see you even though we don't really get along. Just..._don't _think that I'll suddenly start jumping for joy over __Abby__. I can't. I'm sorry. Bye, John."_

Heaving a heavy sigh, John ended the call and set his mobile phone to the side of his laptop after glancing at the time. Seeing that he had two hours until his therapist appointment – which, he did _not _need, thank you very much, - he decided to go ahead and visit Abigail.

* * *

Abby Watson, a young woman of twenty-five, sat in her cell (she called it a cell, but it was really just a square room furnished all in white; white walls, white floor, white bed,) silently brooding while staring up at the ceiling. While brooding, she was also thinking about the fact that she was supposed to receive a visit from her older brother; and, while this made her happy, she was also finding it difficult to care much about it.

_Must be the new meds_, she thought as the 'cell' door opened to reveal a brunette woman wearing the customary _white _orderly uniform, her facial expression blank.

"I'm to take you to Meeting Room 3. Your brother's here," the nurse, Lara, said, her voice not matching her expression at all, as it was actually quite genial.

It took Abby a moment to make her limbs work properly and swing her legs over the side of the bed. Standing, she wobbled slightly, but steadied after Lara took her arm and helped her out of the door and down several corridors that seemed to go on for ages to Abby. Sighing, she tried mustering up happiness at seeing her brother, but her thoughts kept wandering to the fact she was slowly starting to feel nauseous the longer she was upright.

Lara led her to the designated Meeting Room and gently helped her down into a large, cushioned chair. Smiling at her charge, Lara then turned to the man sitting in the chair opposite Abby, "Once the two of you are finished here, just press the button to the right of the door and I'll be right down."

"Right, thank you." John said, watching the woman (her arse, if he were to be honest) as she left the room.

"She's married, John. Just doesn't wear her ring to work," Abby suddenly spoke, her words slightly slurred in her lethargic state.

Her brother turned to look at her, face slightly pink with embarrassment. "Haven't the faintest what you mean, Abby."

She just barely managed to smile in amusement, silently cursing the meds currently coursing through her system. "Of course you don't, John,"

John smiled, but it quickly morphed into a look of concern as he looked at his little sister with a clinical eye. "How are you, Abby?"

"Still living_, if _you can call it that."

"How're they treating you here?"

Abby sighed and lolled her head against the back of the chair, "They haven't tried murdering me or anything, so, fine."

John was silent as he continued looking his sister over, noticing how thin she was; nearing an unhealthy level of skinny it looked like. Her hair was lank and lacked any sort of shine that would have suggested she was even remotely all right, her eyes were dull, and her skin was a ghostly pale from having not been outside in a very long time. Overall, in John's _medical _opinion, she looked as close to dead as possible without actually _being_ deceased; in his _brotherly _opinion, he was already thinking of multiple arguments to use when demanding Abby be released – _today._

"John,"

"Hm?" He acknowledged the fact his sister had spoken, though his mind was still miles away – how could he support _two _people on an army pension? And in London? He couldn't, he would have to get a job, quickly.

"I hate it here. I want to go home." She said her words quiet though it was easy to see that she was slightly distressed. "Everything here is _bland_."

"You know we'd be a bit tight on living until I can find a job." John said, not wanting to discourage her, just letting her know the reality of things. "We may not be able to stay in London, Abby. It's very expensive,"

"As long I get out of here, I don't care if we have to live in a park."

He snorted in sarcastic amusement, "We may have to."

Abby gave a tiny smile, "They let me read the letter you sent. How's your shoulder?"

"Oh, it's good. Yeah, good. Gives me a bit of trouble sometimes," he said, rotating his shoulder as he spoke. "Gets stiff, you know."

"And your leg?"

"My therapist thinks it's psychosomatic." Her smile got wider. "Shut up, Abby."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You don't need to, that stupid smile is saying it all."

Abby slowly heaved herself out of the chair and moved toward John, who had stood upon seeing her struggle out of the chair, and wrapped her thin arms around his waist. Laying her head on his chest, she beat down the urge to cry. Abby was the shortest of the family, a fact both Harry _and_ John never let her forget, standing at five feet and four inches, she just barely made it to John's shoulder, but in moments like this she was happy for it because his hugs always made her feel safe and well cared for in a family of people that couldn't, as an unspoken rule it seemed, care less about the girl.

John cherished the feeling of hugging his sister, having not done so since the last time he had seen her some three years ago. "Abby?"

"Yes, John?"

"How are you _really_?"

She was silent as she contemplated an answer, not knowing how best to phrase how she felt. "I'm...not very good. But...I am_ better_ than I was before."

Though not happy with the resopnse, John accepted it, just glad that she had told him the truth. "Okay. Good, that's good." Finally breaking the hug, John took a step back and looked his sister over once more before nodding decisively to himself. "Yeah, definitely getting you out of here."

* * *

It took John having to argue with three different people, having to say that, not only was he a Doctor, but also that he was Abby's primary guardian/caregiver and that he could properly care for his own sister; then, and _only _then, was he able to sign the release papers, after which he received a list of medications Abby was currently on which caused him to gawk at some of them.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Abby's primary doctor, the director of the institution, commented almost snidely to John as they waited for Abby to be brought up.

John's hand tightened on the handle of his walking stick, silently contemplating beating the man over the head with it. "I do, thanks."

The man grunted, and turned to leave as the doors opened revealing Abby being led by Lara toward John. "Good luck, Doctor Watson."

John ignored the man, his attention solely on helping Abby outside once Lara had left her in his care. "Come on, Abby." He said gently, hoping that he actually _could_ take care of her adequately enough. When they made it outside, the sun was somewhere behind the clouds but Abby still flinched at the brightness of being outdoors for the first time in what felt like an age.

"Now, let's see if we can't catch a bloody cab," John mumbled, making Abby smile a little.

* * *

After finally managing to hail a cab, John bundled Abby in and told the cabbie their destination. Abby seemed to melt into the seat as she looked at the city fly by in a blur of colours and _life_. "John?"

"Hm?"

"How's…how's Harry?"

"Oh, she's…well, she's Harry. Still finding her days spent looking into the bottom of a bottle," John said, watching as Abby continued looking out of the window like she had never seen London before. "She and Clara are getting a divorce."

Her head whipped round so quickly, John was afraid she'd end up with whiplash. "They're _what_? But…Harry _loves _Clara!"

"She loves booze more than she loves Clara, apparently." He wryly commented.

She sighed harshly and went back to staring out of the window, angry with her older sister. "She always manages to cock something up by drinking."

"Yeah, well, that's Harry." John shifted in the seat, turning his body to face Abby. "Listen, Abby, I'm going to leave you in my flat for a bit so that you can sleep off the _ridiculous _amount of drugs in your system while I'm at an appointment, okay?"

She hummed in ascent, looking forward to sleeping in a bed that wasn't white and was actually_ comfortable_.

"Abigail, I need to know that you'll be okay and that you're actually going to _sleep_,"

She rolled her eyes in his direction, "John, I'm not going to fucking kill myself in your flat."

"I know, I _know_. I just…I worry for you, Abby, that's all."

"**Don't **worry, John. I'll let you know when you need to worry, yes?"

He scrutinised her face for any sign of a lie and, finding nothing, sighed and nodded in ascent, even though he really was not happy with her response, John knew that he had to give her a modicum of trust.

* * *

When the cab stopped in front of John's temporary home, he paid the cabbie and helped Abby out and into the tiny flat. Their progress was slow going, but John was in no hurry and Abby hardly cared what was really going on even though she really wanted to see if John's bed was as comfy as her brain was making her think it would be.

"Now, the bathroom's just through there," John said, pointing to a door to the left of a small brown desk. "And, I think, there's still some milk left if you wake up and want tea. No sugar though, sorry." He sheepishly finished.

Abby smiled and gently nudged her older brother, knowing that he didn't like putting sugar in his coffee or his tea. She moved lethargically toward the small bed, covered in white sheets, but it was more of an egg-white, really, and immediately laid down on it. The mattress was almost _sinfully _comfortable.

Seeing that Abigail was comfortable and already on her way to sleeping, he moved toward her and gently ran a hand over her hair. "Abs," At her sleepy hum of acknowledgement, he smiled a little and spoke softly to her. "I'm going out for a bit, I should be back before you wake up, all right?"

"Okay," She mumbled, though it sounded like a mashing of sounds to him.

John quickly began to leave the flat, patting his trouser pockets to make sure he had his keys and his wallet, not looking forward to his therapist appointment _at all_.

"Johnny!"

_Jesus_, he thought, having been startled by the unexpected shout and leaning slightly on the open door. "Yes, Abigail?"

"I love you."

The statement made John smile and remember when a much younger Abigail would always scream the same three words at him every morning before leaving for school. "I love you, too. Now, _sleep_." With that, John Watson shut and locked the door to his flat, not knowing that, by the end of the day, he was really going to wish he'd cancelled his appointment.


	2. We're All Nutters, Really

**Thank-you for the alerts/favourites/reviews. It means quite a lot to me that you'd bother taking an interest in this(:**

**There's more Abby/John interaction in this chapter and the Sherlock/John from ASiP when they're in the flat (part of it), so I don't own that... Sherlock and Abby meet in the next chapter! :D**

****SLIGHT TRIGGER WARNING.****

**Hope you like. Review if you want.  
Sorry for any mistakes; I'm only human...**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

Waiting a few minutes until after John had left, Abigail got off of the bed and began snooping about the small flat. There wasn't much for her to look through, the space unsurprisingly Spartan; she started looking in the kitchen, and saw that there were some used dishes in the sink, very little food in the cupboards or fridge, and that John had stupidly left the milk out. After putting the milk away for her brother, she went over to his desk and started looking through the drawers; in them she mostly found letters and magazines (some titles she will be burning from memory) and in another she found a gun.

Abby slowly sat down in the wooden chair in front of the desk, eyes still on the gun. She had been out of the Institute for hardly an hour, and already she was having thoughts about offing herself. The thought was one she'd had more than once, hence the medications and being institutionalised, but she knew that she couldn't do that to John - no matter how much she wanted to.

Quickly slamming the drawer shut, she stood and flopped face first onto the bed in the corner of the room and shut her eyes against the welling tears. She wanted to make John proud of her, and the only way she thought that would be possible, would be if she at least _tried _getting better. If she tried not to give in to the thoughts that normally ran rampant in her mind.

* * *

A few hours after John had left, he returned to the sight of his sister completely awake and on his laptop, a mug in her left hand as she scrolled and clicked with her right.

Abby turned her head over her shoulder and gave John a small smile, "Oh, hi, John." She took in the somewhat pensive look on his face and frowned a little. "All right?"

John sat down on the unoccupied bed, the pensive look never leaving his features. "What? Oh, fine." He stared into nothing for a moment before reaching into his trouser pocket and pulling out his mobile phone, apparently whatever it is he saw making him confused.

Abby's frown deepened as she looked at her brother. "John, are you _sure_?"

Suddenly he stood and moved over to Abby, gently ushering her out of the wooden chair and taking her place in front of the laptop. He opened a new window in the browser and typed 'Sherlock Holmes' into the search engine. Clicking on the first link that came up, apparently Mr. Holmes' website entitled _The Science of Deduction_; John began reading through everything on his website, feeling more and more stunned as he did so.

Abby had placed herself on the bed, watching as her brother looked through some man's website, having lost interest toward the post about 238 different types of tobacco ash. When John appeared to finally be finished, her clue being that he was once again staring into space, she stood and went to put the kettle on.

"John?" She called.

"Mm?" He distractedly responded.

"What happened today?"

He was silent for a long moment. "I met someone…odd."

Brow furrowing, Abby poked her head out of the kitchen and voiced her confusion. "Odd? How do you mean?"

"Sherlock Holmes, Mike introduced me to him. He's apparently looking for a flatmate,"

"What's wrong with him?" She asked, blunt in her curiosity.

John snorted in amusement as he thought over the earlier encounter. "He…Abby, he knew things he shouldn't have known! Things I didn't tell him."

Strongly taken aback, she ducked back into the kitchen to fix John his tea. Bringing it out to him, she said, "Did Mike say something?"

"No, that's the thing. Mike didn't tell him anything about me, but he _knew_, Abigail." John sounded as if he was in a sort of daze from the incident and it made her worry. "He invited me to look at a flat with him tomorrow."

"God, I hope you aren't going." He was silent. "Oh, John, you're _not_, are you?"

"I'm considering it." Was the only thing he said before taking a sip of the warm beverage in his hand.

"John…"

"We'd be splitting the rent two ways, Abby. It could be perfect, especially if I can convince him to let you move in, too."

"But, John, he may be a nutter. Do you really want to take the chance that he may murder us in our sleep?" This was the one time that Abigail had ever sounded like Harry, shrill and accusing, and they both knew it.

"He didn't _seem _like a nutter," John said, attempting to redeem his judgement of character. "Not completely." He added as an afterthought.

"They never do, you know." She said in response, watching her brother's face as he thought, she sighed and nodded her head. "All right, I suppose I can't really fault you for wanting to have a look, at least. Do you want me to go with you?"

He immediately shook his head, "No. If he really is a nutter, I'd prefer you not be there in case he tries anything."

Huffing she sat on the bed, her arms crossed over her chest. "Yeah, all right."

"Abby,"

"Yeah?"

John had a small smile on his face as he looked at her, "This could be good,"

With a sigh she lay back on the bed, staring up at the drab ceiling. "_If _he's not completely mad, you mean."

John rolled his eyes and stood. "So, Chinese take-away, then?"

"Well, I'm bloody well not going to eat beans on toast." She said, trying to hide a smile at the slightly dejected look on his face from having his favourite food criticised.

* * *

The next evening, John had gone off to meet Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street, telling his sister that the entire thing shouldn't take more than two hours at the most.

During the cab ride, John couldn't help but to think about how much he really hoped his sister was wrong, that this Sherlock bloke really wasn't crazy, and that this flat-share idea would actually pan out.

John told the cabbie to stop a block away from the address, intending to walk the rest of the way so that he could get a feel of the area - make sure there were no ill-disguised murderers hanging about. Liking what he saw so far, John was just coming upon 221B; a black door with its number in tarnished gold lettering, six steps away from a cafe - Speedy's.

Reaching up to make his presence known via the door-knocker, John then took a step back and was greeted by Sherlock Holmes having just exited a taxi. "Hello."

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," John greeted in return, turning around to extend a hand.

"Sherlock, please." The darkly dressed man stated, coming forward to shake the army Doctor's hand.

"Well, this is a prime spot." John praised, taking another quick look about the street. "Must be expensive." He said, hoping to God that it really wasn't. If he could barely afford his tin can he called a flat, how could he afford a place like this - even if he were flat-sharing.

As if sensing John's apprehension, Sherlock spoke. "Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, has given me a special deal - owes me a favour." Upon seeing the army Doctor's confusion and interest, he was quick to add, "A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." He then stepped toward the door and gave the aged wood a stronger knock, knowing that Mrs. Hudson probably had not heard the first.

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" John asked, his tone belying his disbelief.

"Oh, no, I _ensured _it." Was Sherlock's slightly enthusiastic response.

Before John could question him as to _why _he helped to get some poor woman's husband put the death, the black door opened; a very grandmotherly-type woman standing there with a smile on her face. Mrs. Hudson, John could only assume, reached forward to happily hug Sherlock, whom only slightly stiffly returned it. "Sherlock!"

"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson." Sherlock said, introducing the two after breaking the hug with Mrs. Hudson.

"Hello," John greeted with a polite smile, mind still on the familiarity and readiness Mrs. Hudson had hugged the taller man.

"Hello, Come in!" Mrs. Hudson eagerly helped the army Doctor inside the flat, smile still firmly on her face.

"Thank you."

Sherlock followed John inside the flat, bypassing both he and Mrs. Hudson, he quickly raced up the staircase and to a closed door; waiting only somewhat patiently for John to make it up the stairs. Sherlock was already thinking of ways to help John get rid of his psychosomatic limp - _if _this all went well, of course. '_No use in counting your chickens before they hatch,_' he thought, but then mentally rolled his eyes. '_Or so ordinary people say._'

Once John had made it up the stairs, Sherlock swung the door open and let him in before moving through the doorway himself, eagerly watching the man's expression for any hint of approval whatsoever.

John Watson looked the lounge room over; it was cluttered, as if someone were in the midst of packing. A full bookcase sat to the right of a fireplace with a mirror above the mantel, a skull sitting right on top of the ledge - a _human_ skull. "Well, this could be very nice," John commented, moving further into the room to take a glance at the kitchen - also cluttered. "Very nice, indeed."

Sherlock gave a barely there smile as John continued looking around. "Yes, my thoughts…precisely,"

"So, I went straight ahead and moved in." / "Soon as we get the rubbish cleaned up. Oh." Sherlock and John simultaneously said, both turning to look at each other, the former in a way that vaguely resembled embarrassment, and the latter in disbelief.

Sherlock moved toward a pile of folders sitting on the arm of a black chair and setting it down on top of a box full things John couldn't really make out. He was quick to start putting things in what he thought to be neat piles as John tried to mask his astonishment that everythingcurrently in the flat was _Sherlock's_. "Well, obviously, I can, erm…clean up, a bit," He said, tone just approaching sheepish as he moved some letters onto the mantel and stabbed a penknife through them, obviously not caring about the damage to the wood it would cause.

"That's a skull," John gestured to said object with his walking stick, attempting to break the tension.

Sherlock gave a small shrug. "Friend of mine." He then wryly added, "When I say friend…"

Mrs. Hudson entered the room and looked at the two men. "What do you think then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms," she said, hiding her curiosity not at all.

John looked at the landlady confused, a frown on his face. "_Of course_ we'll be needing two…"

Automatically realising she seemed to have stepped on his toes, Mrs. Hudson commented, "Oh, don't worry! We get all sorts 'round here. Mrs. Turner next door's got _married ones!_" Her tone was that of a gossiper and it made Sherlock smile the slightest bit.

John hid a smile and moved over to sit stiffly in the armchair across from the black one, adjusting the Union Jack pillow before doing so. John watched Mrs. Hudson move into the kitchen, complaining about the mess that had already been made in the area. He was thinking of how best to bring up the topic of Abby when he saw Sherlock open a laptop. "I looked you up on the internet last night."

Sherlock glanced over to John with a hint of curiosity. "Anything interesting?"

"Found your website, _The Science of Deduction_."

Sherlock gave a small smile of pride, "What did you think?'

Sherlock frowned at John's deprecating look. "You said you could…identify a software designer by his tie and…an airline pilot by his left thumb?"

Feeling the need to prove him wrong, he responded, "Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone, as well as the fact that you have a sister that you're close to."

John, thinking of Abby calling Sherlock a nutter, asked, "How?"

Sherlock only smiled as if he knew something that John didn't. They sat in silence for a moment as Mrs. Hudson puttered about in the kitchen and Sherlock checked his emails. "Um, Sherlock…there's something else,"

"Your sister?"

"Well, yes, she -"

"You want to know if she can stay here as well," Sherlock stated, turning away from his laptop to look at the army Doctor that looked somewhat nervous. He thought it over for a moment, he knew that there was _something _about her; there had to be if John needed to stay with her for a long period of time. _So, illness then, that could be useful in some experiments..._, he bit back a smirk before responding to the shorter man. "She doesn't have a problem with the violin, does she?"


	3. How Do Marathoners Do This?

**First! thank you for the additional follows guys. means a lot(:  
****Second! Sherlock and Abby meet now. yey  
Third! the bits of ASiP dialogue i do not own..  
Fourth! ...i apparently have this affinity for "cute" endings... oops?  
Oh! Fifth. I changed the title..i like this much better than the other one that had no bloody relevance T.T**

**Review if you like, sorry for mistakes. **

**Enjoy.**

* * *

John had been gone more than the two hours he had said he would be and Abby was beginning to worry. She spent half an hour worrying over where her brother could possibly be, whether or not he was still alive.

Another hour went by and Abby finally put on her coat and left John a sticky note on his desk. She quickly ran out of the flat; once on the side-walk, she looked up and down the road. Deciding that running to Baker Street would her best bet, Abby took in a deep breath and started up.

* * *

Abby stopped at the end of Baker Street, her hands on her knees as she tried to regulate her breathing. _Good _God _am I unfit!_, she thought.

Straightening her body, her hands on her hips, she took deep breaths as she looked for number 221B. Finding the faded door, Abby walked up the two steps and gave a harsh knock, trying her hardest to beat down the feeling of dizziness. After having to wait for a long moment, the door was finally opened by an older woman that gave her a smile. "Oh, hello, dear. Can I help you?"

"Erm, yes. I was told to come here by a Sherlock Holmes. Is he in?" Abby said, the lie having taken very little effort to tell.

"Oh! He's right upstairs, dear." The older woman moved to the side, waving Abigail inside. "I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady."

"Brilliant to meet you, Mrs. Hudson. I'm Abby," She said, smiling. "I'll just go right up, shall I?"

At Mrs. Hudson nod, Abigail slowly walked up the staircase, hoping that John was okay. Reaching an open doorway, she saw a curly-haired man stretched out on a sofa, his hands pressed together at the palms with his fingertips brushing his chin. Shyly rapping her hand against the door frame, she quietly spoke, "Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock's eyes flew open as he sat bolt upright on the sofa, a frown immediately overcoming his features as he took in the young woman before him. _Hair unkempt, as well her clothes; she ran here. Hospital admission bracelet on her left wrist, gold medical bracelet on her right; illness. An illness that would require immediate attention and looking after. Twenty-four, or twenty-five... Ah... _"Miss Watson."

Abby was immediately confused, and not a bit suspicious, "Yeah…," She looked around the flat. "Is… Is John here?"

"No."

When the man said nothing else, she decided to be brave and walked forward, her hand outstretched. "Abigail, but everyone calls me Abby."

Sherlock stood from the sofa, making a mental note of the slight widening of the girl's eyes. _Obviously because of the considerable height difference_, he thought as he shook her hand. "Sherlock Holmes, but it seems…you already knew that." He wryly commented.

"Yes, well, John's told me about you." She said, hardly noticing that Sherlock still had a hold of her hand.

"How was your run to Baker Street?" He finally let go of her hand, making another note on the small feeling of loss when he did and resumed a seated position on the sofa.

Taken aback, Abby stepped away and frowned. "How'd you know I ran here?"

"Your hair, it's still windswept and your clothes are rumpled from rapid movements." Sherlock lay back on the sofa, eyes shut as he continued thinking about the current case. "Not to mention your face."

"My _face_? What's wrong with my face?"

"Your cheeks are flushed, which you means you ran here from a considerable distance and aren't used to such exercise. You waited to get your breath back but, on the whole, you arrived here not too long ago. That's enough time for your heart and breathing rate to return to normal, but not long enough for the blood to diminish in your face." He rapidly stated, no longer caring about the youngest Watson in the room.

Her cheeks darkened in embarrassment and silently swore to herself to get fit soon. Sighing, the girl looked around the cluttered room, her eyes fixating on a pink suitcase near the entrance to what she assumed to be a kitchen. Her eyes flickered between the case and the currently thinking man twice before she finally decided to ignore it. "Erm, sorry, but, where's my brother?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, "I haven't killed him, if _that's _what you're thinking."

"Where is he then, if you've not killed him?"

He sighed in exasperation and stood, taking the girl by the shoulders and leading her over to a chair and forcefully, but still somewhat gently, pushed her down into a chair. Ignoring her squeak of indignation, he stalked back to the sofa and flopped onto it, resuming his previous thinking position. "He'll be back soon. Now _shut up_, I'm thinking."

Abby opened her mouth, ready to argue when he raised a hand, index finger pointed at her. "Ah."

She frowned, "But - "

"_No._"

Snapping her mouth shut, Abigail folded her arms across her chest and stared straight ahead, completely confused. Hoping that John would, indeed, return soon, she looked around the room a bit more, taking in the mess of boxes and papers. Obviously everything was Sherlock's; he seemed the type to prefer chaotic order to complete cleanliness.

She only had to wait for twenty minutes, long enough for the dizziness to disappear almost completely, before John was entering the flat, his face morphing from anticipation to confusion when his eyes fell on her form. "Abigail? What the hell are you doing here?"

She stood from the chair she'd been forced to sit in, "Didn't you see my note?"

The army Doctor stared incredulously at his sister before turning to the seemingly oblivious Sherlock. "Are… Is that _three _patches?"

"It's a three-patch problem." Sherlock stated, not bothering to open his eyes.

John glanced back to his sister, "What note?"

"You were taking an age, so I ran here."

"You…_ran _here? _You_?" He was restraining himself from laughing, but couldn't stop the chuckle that past his lips.

Abby frowned and turned away from him.

John turned back to the consulting detective. "Well?" Silence. "You asked me to come, I'm assuming it's important."

He opened his eyes turned his head to look at the army Doctor. "Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

Abby smiled and turned to look at Sherlock, "You wanted him to come here…to use his phone? Don't you have one?"

"Don't want to use mine. Number's on the website, there's always a chance it'll be recognised." He said as if it were obvious.

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone." John said, barely hiding his irritation.

"Yes, she's downstairs. I tried shouting, but she didn't hear."

"I _was_ the other side of London!"

"There was no hurry." Sherlock stated as if the assumption wasn't at all his fault.

Both John and Abby stared at the consulting detective, the former in agitated disbelief and the latter in amusement. John dug into his trouser pocket and pulled out his mobile phone, holding it to Sherlock who simply held out a hand, palm up. When neither of them moved, Abby took the phone from her brother and placed it into Sherlock's waiting hand, curious as to what he wanted with it. "Here, Sherlock."

The tall man mumbled a thank you and closed his eyes again. All was silent in the flat as Sherlock returned to his thinking pose and John looked around the room, sometimes glancing out of the window. Abby was vaguely amused by the whole thing, though she quickly became greatly confused when the two men soon started talking about the pink case she had seen, an unnamed woman being mentioned.

"Sorry, sorry! I'm a bit behind…but, _what's _going on?" Abby interrupted.

Sherlock sighed, irritated and John looked over to his sister, completely forgetting that she was even there. Her brother took pity on her confusion and gave Abigail a quick run-down of the case that he and Sherlock were currently working on.

Abby looked between the consulting detective and her brother, finally managing to say, "So…a murderer…had a pink case in his possession after killing a woman by making it look like a suicide? And you only _know_ it's murder because the murderer _took_ the case?" At John's affirming nod, she fell silent as Sherlock spoke once more to the army Doctor, holding the mobile phone out.

"John, on my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text."

Abby snorted at her brother's look of indignation. Walking over to take the phone, John glanced once more out of the window.

Abigail watched as Sherlock looked to where John was standing, confused but attempting to hide it. Having enough of the army Doctor looking out of the window like some sort of sentry, Sherlock asked, "What's wrong?"

"Just met a friend of yours."

"A _friend_?" he questioned, obviously trying to think of whom John could possibly be speaking of.

"An enemy." John amended, walking toward the desk.

"Oh. Which one?"

"Your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people _have_ arch-enemies?"

"Mine's the woman with the mad Boxer where we used to live," Abby muttered to herself, being ignored by both men in the room.

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?" Sherlock asked, knowing exactly who the shorter man was talking about.

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity, we could've split the fee. Think it through next time." Abby noted that the man actually sounded disappointed in John's decision.

"Who is he?" Abby asked.

"The most dangerous man you will ever meet, and _not _my problem right now. John, on my desk, _the number_." Sherlock said, his voice steadily growing more exasperated as he spoke.

John looked the epitome of annoyed as he moved over to Sherlock's desk, looking for said number. Picking up the scrap of paper, he quickly became confused. "Jennifer Wilson… That was... Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"_Yes_, that's not important. Just enter the number."

Knowing how slow her brother was when it came to typing, Abby took the phone and paper from his hands and began to enter it. Just as Sherlock was about to ask if it had been done, she turned to look him. "What do you want the message to say?"

Surprised, but refusing to show it, the consulting detective said, "These words _exactly_; 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come.'"

Not bothering to look at the keyboard of the mobile in her hand as she typed, Abby frowned while looking at Sherlock. "You blacked out?"

"What? No... No!" He rolled off of the sofa, stepping on the coffee table instead of around it, he walked over to the pink case and Abby couldn't stop herself from staring at his bum as he walked passed, pressing send as she did. "Type it and send it. Quickly."

"Already done, sir."

"You're good. What was your name again?" Sherlock asked, moving a chair from in front of the brown desk to in front of the two by the fireplace, setting the pink case on top of it.

Frowning, she tossed the phone back to a stunned John. "Magenta, _Your Highness_."

The consulting detective glanced up at the younger woman as he unzipped the case and flipped the top open, "Sarcasm?"

"Yes."

"Thought so."

"No you didn't, you ponce." She said, though the smile on her face took the venom from her words.

Sherlock hid his own smile by clasping his hands together in front of his mouth, his eyes and mind now intent on the case in front of him. John looked between the consulting detective and the pink case, trying to tell himself that the two of them were not flirting—_if Sherlock even knew __**how**_.

"That's the pink lady's case... Jennifer Wilson's case...," John commented into the silence.

"Yes, obviously." Sherlock stated, pushing Abby to the back of his mind and the case at hand to the forefront. When he realised that both occupants of the room were silent after that comment, Sherlock rolled his eyes and sarcastically said, "Oh, perhaps I should mention, _I _didn't kill her."

"I never say you did." The army Doctor said, quick to redeem himself.

"Why not? Based on the text I just had Abigail send and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption." He retorted, the sarcasm now harder to detect.

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

Sherlock glanced at a pink-faced Abby and smiled, jumping so that he was now crouching in the chair. "Now and then, yes."

John turned to look at his sister, beginning to wonder if coming here in the first place was such a good idea after all. Deciding that dwelling on that thought for too long wouldn't be very beneficial to any of the room's occupants, John moved to sit in the unoccupied patterned chair, his leg beginning to annoy him. "How did you get this?"

Sherlock was quick to respond, "By looking."

Abby moved to sit on the arm of John's chair, looking between Sherlock and the pink case, though her eyes were more intent on the dark-haired man than the case. She idly wondered if he was even real; whether she was still sleeping at the Institute and just managed to dream up a completely gorgeous human being. She was startled out of her thoughts by John turning suddenly in the chair and saying, "Why did Abby just send that text?"

"Well, the question is, where is her phone...now?" Sherlock asked, he was eager for John to use his mind, to see what he was seeing.

"She could have lost it." John said, though it was obvious he was attempting to be hopeful that that was all it was.

Wanting to encourage him, Sherlock said, "Yes, or...?"

Both Watson siblings turned to look at the mobile phone and then the consulting detective, the younger understanding much quicker than the older. "You think...the murderer has the phone?"

"Maybe she...left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is, the murderer has her phone."

Nearly upsetting herself on the arm of the chair, Abby turned to look incredulously at Sherlock. "No, sorry, what are we doing? Did you just have me _text _a murderer? What the hell will that do?"

Sherlock simply smirked as John's mobile began to ring, all three occupants of the room now staring at the phone in the army Doctor's hand; one in triumph as the other two were slightly frightened by the occurrence. "A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her." Sherlock looked at Abby and John as he continued to explain. "If somebody had just found that phone, they would ignore a text like that. But the murderer," The phone rang off and his smirk widened into an excited smile. "Would panic." He slammed the lid of the case shut and quickly began moving about the room, sliding his jacket onto his shoulders while the Watson siblings stared in a stunned confusion at John's phone.

"Have you talked to the police?" John asked, looking around his sister to the consulting detective.

As if John were a child, he responded with, "Four people are dead; there isn't time to talk to the police."

"Then why are you talking to _us_?" the army Doctor was obviously upset by that comment as he tried understanding what the hell was going on.

The taller man looked forlornly to the empty spot on the mantel, "Mrs. Hudson took my skull…"

Abby stood, snorting at that ridiculous statement. "So we're pretty much replacements for your skull?"

Sherlock smiled at the younger woman. "Relax, you're both doing fine." Putting his coat on, he looked over to John. "Well?"

"Well _what_?"

"Well...you could both just sit here and...watch _telly_," He didn't bother trying to hide the disgust at the idea as he spoke.

Abby smirked, understanding what the man was trying to convey. "You want us to come with you,"

Abby could tell that he was slightly embarrassed as he was now very interested in putting on his scarf. "I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention so..."

"Just say you want us to come with you." Abby said, her smirk widening into a smile.

He sent a scathing look her way, though it held none of the bite it would have with anyone else. Glancing over to John, Sherlock became slightly confused. "Problem?"

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan." At that, she became immediately confused and turned to look at her brother.

Quickly irritated, Sherlock looked away from the army Doctor. "What about her?"

"She said you get off on this...that you enjoy it."

"_This _is what you get off on?" Abby interjected, turning back to Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

He gave her a glance, rolling his eyes before turning back to the slightly taller blonde man. "And I said 'dangerous', and here you are." He slipped his gloves on his hands and immediately turned to walk out of the door, grabbing Abby's wrist as he did, leaving John in the flat.

"I have a question." Abby said as Sherlock pulled her down the stairs.

"I _might _have an answer."

"Do you really get off on murder, or…?"

"Miss Watson,"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"Shut up."


	4. Can't Help Being a Child

**good lord. i didn't mean to not update for as long as i did, but i was busy graduating and turning 18 (woohoo!)  
****anyway, there's more ASiP here that i don't own - obviously :P**

**i hope you all like this chapter, i like it, so i suppose that's all that matters XD**

**also, THANK YOU FOR THE ADDITIONAL ALERTS AND FAVOURITES. makes me smile whenever i get the emails(:  
however, this is my last prewritten chapter, so i have to jump on that.**

**apologies for any mistakes.**

**Enjoy**

* * *

Sherlock and Abby waited for only a moment for John to catch up to them outside of the flat. When John did so, the two siblings followed Sherlock to an unknown destination.

Falling back slightly, knowing that Abby would accommodate her own walking pace for him, John spoke, "Abigail, why did you leave the flat?"

Glancing at her brother, Abby frowned a little at his tone. "Because I thought you were dead or something. You said two hours, you were gone for three."

Sighing, John shook his head, annoyed that, not only had she ventured out on her own, but also because she had gone to the home of a stranger without knowing whether or not he was dangerous. "You should have waited for me. I don't want you leaving without me knowing about it, all right?"

Irritated, Abigail sped forward to walk beside Sherlock. Looking up at the tall man, she asked, "Where are we going, exactly?"

Glancing at the younger woman and taking note of the angry flush painting her cheeks, he assumed that she and John had just had argument. Choosing to ignore it, Sherlock placed his arms behind his back and moved around Abby so that she was further away from the street. "Northumberland Street's just a five-minute walk from here."

"And you think that he's stupid enough to show up?" She asked, more than a little confused.

"No, I think he's brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones; they're always so _desperate _to get caught."

John had finally taken his place on the other side of Abby, questioning the reasoning behind Sherlock's statement before she could. Both siblings had decided to ignore their mini-argument, though no doubt it would eventually be brought up all over again at a later time.

"Appreciation," Sherlock answered both Watson's confusion, his eyes continually roaming over the people the trio were walking by. "Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, it needs an audience."

To Abby it seemed as if he were talking from experience. She lightly nudged him with her elbow, arching an eyebrow in question when he looked down at her. In answer, there was a barely noticeable twitch at the corner of his mouth, as if he were trying not to smile, and it caused Abby to smile to herself in a triumph of understanding the double meaning of Sherlock's statement.

Sherlock turned so that he was walking backwards, his eyes continuing their rapid movements over the street and sidewalk, trying to find anything that could possibly give him an idea as to who the killer could be; what their profession was, or possible age, anything. "This is his hunting ground. Right here, in the heart of the city." Turning to once again face forward, he glanced over at John, seeing him struggle to match his long-legged pace because of the walking stick. "Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. All of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but _nobody _saw them go."

Abby could see Sherlock becoming slightly manic in his wanting to understand _who _the killer could be, the puzzle of the situation. She glanced over to her brother, a question clear in her eyes, and received a shrug of confusion in response.

"Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed _wherever _they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?" Sherlock continued, placing his gloved hands together in a prayer position at his lips.

Even though the question was, almost surely, rhetorical, John answered anyway, interested in the possible answer. "Don't know. Who?"

"Haven't the faintest. Hungry?"

Abby couldn't help the snort of laughter at his response. She couldn't stop herself from what she said next, "You don't get to say that very often, do you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning his head to look at the street opposite to hide a small smile. "No, I don't."

"So I should savour it then, shall I?"

He gave her a playfully supercilious stare before moving across the street to a small restaurant named Angelo's, John and Abby were quick to follow after him.

* * *

Upon reaching Angelo's, Sherlock opened the door, allowing Abigail to enter before John or himself. The trio were immediately waved toward a table near a large window that faced the street, Abby noticing a small white place holder with the word **RESERVED **in large lettering. Thanking the man, Sherlock pulled his gloves off, as well as his overcoat and scarf, his eyes almost resolutely on the road. "22 Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."

John moved to sit with his back facing the window, pulling off his own black coat, forcing his sister to sit beside him and across from Sherlock. "He's not just going to ring the doorbell. He'd need to be mad."

Raising an eyebrow, Abby looked at her brother as if he had suddenly lost his mind. "Well, considering he's killed four people…,"

Moments after they had sat down a pot-bellied man with long grey hair pulled back into a ponytail, came to greet them, immediately shaking the consulting detective's hand. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock smiled at the older man, though she couldn't quite tell whether it was a fake smile people put on when they didn't really wish to speak to a particular someone, or if was merely one of recognition.

Placing menus down onto the table, the man continued speaking, "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you and for your friends."

"Do you want to eat?" Sherlock asked the siblings, almost as if he were testing them.

"I'm not his friend." John mumbled and Abby, having heard him, immediately stomped on his foot, her eyes blazing in a silent '_What the hell is wrong with you?_' when he looked at her.

Gesturing to Sherlock, the man said, "This man got me off a murder charge."

"This is Angelo. Three years ago, I proved to Lestrade that at the time of a particularly vicious triple-murder, Angelo was in a completely different part of town house-breaking."

Angelo shook John and Abby's hands, a smile on his face. "He cleared my name."

"I cleared it a bit." Sherlock clarified, once again watching the street. "Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing." Angelo answered. Once again wishing to praise the consulting detective, he added, "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You _did _go to prison." This statement prompted Abby to smile, finding it interesting how the much taller man liked clearing up the facts of Angelo's stint as a criminal.

"I'll get a candle for the table. Better atmosphere." Angelo said before moving to get a candle and placing it in the middle of their table. He smiled again and walked away from the trio, stopping along the way to talk to other customers.

Abby glanced at Sherlock, a smile still on her face. "He seems like a nice man. I didn't know you did good deeds along with solving crimes."

Sherlock glanced at the young woman, but otherwise ignored the comment. Placing his menu at the table's edge, he looked to John before looking back onto the street. "The both of you might as well eat. Might be a long wait."

Abby placed her own menu on top of Sherlock's and folded her arms on the tabletop, her eyes unmoving from the consulting detective. She simply took in his features; the small downturn of his lips as he concentrated on watching 22 Northumberland Street. She was most fascinated by his cheekbones and his eyes, how perfectly the features worked to his advantage of making of him attractive. Before she could have her eyes roam over the rest of his person, she felt a tap her on the shoulder.

"You should eat, Abby." He said, voice low so that Sherlock wouldn't hear.

"I'm not hungry." She responded and immediately knew that the sentence made her sound like some petulant child.

"Abigail, you need to eat. Have you taken your medication?"

She was silent, her eyes becoming very focused upon on the wooden tabletop. Both siblings were unaware of Sherlock's eavesdropping upon their conversation as he watched the buildings opposite for any sign of the murderer. He was interested in the relationship between the two of them, even though he knew that Abby was John's sister, his current admonishing made it seem as if he were her father instead. Deciding to just ignore them both and then delete the previous parts of conversation later, Sherlock returned to watching the outside.

"Abigail! You need to take them!" John's voice was a harsh whisper as he watched his sister begin to trace patterns on the table with her finger.

"I don't need them," She mumbled, her right leg beginning to bounce up and down repeatedly in her agitation.

"Abby, you can't decide that. You may think you don't need them, but -"

"I DON'T NEED THEM!" She yelled, her eyes finally moving to stare at John. Aware that near everyone in the restaurant was now staring at her, Sherlock included, she repeated in quieter voice, "I don't need them. I _don't_."

John glanced around the area before settling his attention once more on Abigail. "Abigail, this is _not _up for debate. Now, either you eat here and promise to take your meds or, I will treat you like the child you are acting like." At her silence, he moved closer so that he could look her in the eye, "Are we clear?"

After nodding in the affirmative, Abby preceded to silently sulk and continue with the staring contest she was having with the table. She hated that John talked to her like she was eight years old all over again; that, just because she may not be completely "normal", he treated her like some sort of simpleton. Abigail loved her brother, probably the only family member she could actually say that about without feeling the urge to sick up afterward, but sometimes she wished that they could have a regular sibling relationship.

A few minutes later, after everyone had gone back to what they been doing previously, Angelo returned to their table and took their orders before leaving them alone once more.

Abby, knowing that she had probably embarrassed her brother with her earlier shout; she nudged his foot with hers. Once she had his attention, she smiled tentatively and mouthed an apology; receiving a nod in return, she wasn't sure if that meant he forgave her or if he was now cross with her but wanted to appease her.

Sighing, Abby went back to staring at the table, unaware of Sherlock's eyes on her all the while.

* * *

After receiving their food, John didn't touch his own dish until he was sure that Abby was going to eat at least half her own. Turning to Sherlock, who was once again staring out of the window, hardly blinking or even breathing, John decided to bring up the mysterious man he'd been abducted by earlier in the evening. "People don't have arch-enemies."

Being pushed out of his state of agitated focus, Sherlock turned to stare confusedly at John. "I'm sorry?"

"In real life." He said, swallowing the small bit of food in his mouth, he glanced back to Abby and saw her poking her food with a fork. Deciding to ignore it for now, he turned back to the consulting detective. "There are no arch-enemies in real life. It doesn't happen."

Sherlock was back to staring out of the window, hardly paying attention to John's words even as he responded to them. "Doesn't it? Sounds a bit _dull_."

"So who did I meet?"

Ignoring the question, the taller man finally looked back to John for a moment as he said, "What do people have then, in their..._real lives_?"

To Abby, who had half an ear trained on their conversation, it sounded as if Sherlock was being derisive toward the notion of "real lives"; which, she really couldn't blame him for, she supposed.

"Friends," the army Doctor answered. "People they know. People they like, people they don't like..." John was almost regretting bringing this up as he glanced back to Abby and saw that she had made a bit of progress with her food. "Girlfriends, boyfriends."

"Yes, well, as I was saying: _dull_."

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?"

Abby frowned at the question, thinking that the answer had to be a yes. What woman in her right mind _wouldn't _wish to be on the arm of Sherlock Holmes? The man was sex in a suit; not mention his voice. _Good Lord, it should illegal._ These thoughts would explain her almost obscene shock at his answer of,

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

John seemed to be shocked as well, which was evident in his next question that made Abby snort into her pasta at what could be implied from it. "Oh right. Do you have a boyfriend?" At the consulting detective's shift of complete focus to him, John added, "Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine."

John smiled, though it was clear, to Abigail at least, that he felt marginally uncomfortable with Sherlock's probing gaze. "So, you've got a boyfriend, then?"

"No."

"Right, okay. You're unattached, just like me." John shifted in his seat, eyes now resolutely on his plate of food. "Right. Good."

After watching the army Doctor with a furrowed brow, completely confused by the odd turn of conversation, Sherlock turned back to stare out of the window. However, his focus was no longer on the task at hand, but on the questions John had asked him; why would it matter whether or not he was in a relationship? Had he been flirting with him, or only making conversation? Positive that the, slightly, older man had indeed been flirting, the consulting detective turned back to look at John, clearly uncomfortable. "John, um...I think you should know that, while I'm flattered by your interest, I consider myself married to my work and I'm really not looking for any -"

Deciding that the awkward party needed to end, and _now_, Abby set down her fork and got the dark-haired man's attention. "Sherlock,"

He arched an eyebrow, but didn't speak.

"John isn't gay."

He was silent for a moment, and Abby could see a hint of skepticism in his blue-green eyes. "Oh."

"No, really, he wasn't asking because he was interested in you. He was asking just to make conversation," Abigail smiled at Sherlock's hidden look of relief.

John had been floundering for a way to defend himself, but was glad that Abby had taken care of it for him. He had no idea that a person that seemed so brilliant could _possibly _be so...socially inept.

Sherlock gave a barely there smile in return to Abby, but was quick to return to his position of staring out at the street. His features became blank when he saw a cab stop in front of 22 Northumberland Street. "Look across the street, Taxi's just stopped. Nobody getting in, nobody getting out." John and Abby turned to look where he had indicated, the youngest Watson taking a bite of the eldest's food while his back was turned.

"Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever." Sherlock muttered. He then second-guessed himself and said, "Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

Noticing that both Watsons were staring at the stopped cab, Sherlock quietly admonished them. "Don't stare."

"_You're _staring," Abby hissed.

"We can't _all _stare."

Sherlock quickly grabbed his coat and walked right out of the restaurant. Confused, Abby was quick to follow him outside, looking between the stopped cab and the consulting detective as he put on his coat. John was quick to follow them out, not even realising that he had left behind his walking stick.

The man in the back of the cab was looking around the street, he turned around completely and made eye contact with Sherlock before once again facing forward. As the cab started to drive off, Sherlock dashed into the road, barely paying attention the fact that he was nearly run over by a bloody car.

The trio chased after the cab, John yelling an apology to the driver, but they were too slow, the cab having turned a corner by the time they made it in front of 22 Northumberland Street.

"I've got the cab number." John said, obviously thinking that would help.

"Good for you." Sherlock wasn't paying any real attention to either of his companions; busy running the route the cabbie would be taking through his mind. Abby was interested in the fact that he kept muttering directions at a frantic pace, as if he were reading them off an invisible map.

Immediately after spouting the directions, Sherlock sprinted away and into an alleyway, pushing a large man out of the way; John yelling another apology to the indignant man as he went by.

Their running up stairs and down stairs, and through the streets and across the rooftops of London was tiring, but to Abby and John both, it was a refreshing change of pace from the normality of which people usually lived their lives.

At one of the turns, they had just missed the taxi, prompting Sherlock to take a sharp right turn, Abby right behind him. "This way." He yelled, though John still tried running in the direction the taxi had actually gone in. "No, _this _way."

John was quick to catch up to them as they continued their mad dash after a murderer in a taxi. On the final stretch of running, Sherlock somehow managed to run even faster than the sprint he had already been going at, coming to a stop right in the middle of the road in front of the taxi. "Police! Open her up." He said, holding up what Abby assumed to be a policeman's ID.

Breathing harsh, the siblings followed Sherlock to the rear of the car, forcefully opening the door. Sherlock needed only glance at the confused man in the back of the cab to know that he was most definitely _not _the serial killer. "No... Teeth, tan. What, Californian? LA, Santa Monica, just arrived."

"How...can you possibly know that?" John asked through his attempts to regulate his breathing.

"The luggage." He answered. Turning his attention back to the man, Sherlock asked him, "Probably your first trip to London, right? Going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you."

"Sorry, are you guys the police?" The American asked, looking between the trio with confusion and slight suspicion clear in his expression.

"Yeah. Everything all right?" Sherlock said, flashing the ID in his hand. At the stranger's nod, the consulting detective gave him a false smile before walking away. "Welcome to London!"

John watched Abby follow Sherlock away from the cab before turning back to the American. "Any problems, let us know." He slammed the door shut and quickly walked back to the consulting detective and his sister.

"So, it was basically just a cab that happened to slow down?" Abby asked, doubled over and breathing through her mouth.

"Basically." Sherlock replied.

"Not the murderer?" John asked, though it was only slightly rhetorical.

"_Not _the murderer, no."

"Wrong country, good alibi."

Abby looked at the ID wallet in Sherlock's hand and reached forward to take it. "What the hell is this, anyway?" She opened it and read the name aloud, completely confused. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Handing it over to John so that he could have look, she turned to look up at the consulting detective.

"Yeah, I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, John. I've got plenty at the flat."

"So, he's annoying often, is he?"

Smiling, he nodded in the affirmative and glanced down the road. Seeing legitimate policemen talking to the man in the back of the cab, Sherlock glanced at his companions. "Got your breath back?"

"What are you, the Flash?" / "Ready when you are." Abby and John respectively answered, one in annoyed wonder and the other in excitement.

The trio turned and started running back to Baker Street, a new sense of camaraderie settling over them as they did.


	5. No One Is Normal, Dear

**A/N: This is early i worked for the last couple of days to get this up because i felt so bad just leaving you guys hanging for two weeks :p _however_, though i reallyreallyreally wanted this chap to end ASiP (by the way, don't own the dialogue or characters) - this isn't the end. only because i ran out of time today and i wanted it up.**

**so, next chapter will end ASiP and we'll get in to BB (which, is actually my 6th fav episode...[see what i did there?])**

**ANYWAY! cheers to the people that alerted and fav'd! puts a smile on my face. but, i'd like to hear how you guys think i'm doing so far? :)**

**Pardon Mistakes.  
Enjoy.**

* * *

The trio entered 221B, divesting themselves of their coats before leaning against the wall by the staircase. They all agreed amidst laughter that their running through the streets of London was one of the most ridiculous things any of them had ever done.

Abby revelled in the deliciously deep sound of Sherlock's laugh, and she assumed that he hadn't had much cause to laugh in a long while. John's laughter, to her, was also music to her ears; it had been too long since she had last heard her older brother laugh and she smiled.

Taking a respite from the laughter, John turned to Sherlock. "What were we doing there anyway?"

Abby noticed that Sherlock seemed to become slightly awkward at the question as he cleared his throat. "Oh, just passing the time." He glanced at John before continuing. "And proving a point."

"What point?" John asked, confused by the statement.

"You." Sherlock turned toward the staircase and called out, "Mrs. Hudson, Doctor Watson _will _take the room upstairs!"

Attempting to be indignant of such a decision being made for him, John frowned a little at the consulting detective. "Says who?"

"Says the man at the door." Was his simple response.

At the sudden knock on the front door of 221B, Abby jumped while Sherlock smiled. She watched her brother move to the door and opens it to Angelo's slightly smiling face, John's walking stick in hand, and immediately turned to look up at the taller man. "That was the point you wanted to make? That John didn't need his cane?" At Sherlock's nod the young woman gave him a small smile but said nothing else as her brother made his way back to them.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" Mrs. Hudson said, moving quickly toward the consulting detective, obviously distressed.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Upstairs." Was all the harried woman could get out in her state of unease.

The trio immediately bound up the stairs, Sherlock swinging the door open and moving over to a silver haired man sitting in the dark armchair as if he had been expecting him to be in the flat. "What are you doing?"

"Well, I knew you'd find the case, I'm not stupid." The man spoke, sitting in the chair with the utmost ease about his person even though he was, obviously, annoyed with Sherlock.

Abby and John looked around the flat crawling with police in confusion, though the young woman was trying her hardest to concentrate on the conversation happening between the two men and _not _on the amount of people currently in the flat. She wasn't used to being in such close quarters with strangers like this, and was slowly becoming anxious the longer she was in the room. Taking in deep breaths, and refocusing her eyes on Sherlock and the silver haired man, Abby began following their conversation (more like argument) with more interest.

"Well, what do you call this, then?" Sherlock said, his voice dripping with irritation.

The man took a glance around the flat before saying, like it was all perfectly normal, "It's a drugs bust!"

John began to smile, turning to his sister before back to the two arguing men, failing to notice the ghost-like pallor of her skin. "Seriously? _This _guy – a junkie? Have you met him?" He said, as if the idea of Sherlock Holmes on drugs was the most idiotic thing he'd ever heard.

The consulting detective turned to the eldest Watson, his tone of voice almost embarrassed as he said, "John..."

"You could search this flat all day, you wouldn't anything that you could call 'recreational'." He stated, not thinking for a _mome__nt _that Sherlock did, or had ever done, drugs.

Abby elbowed John sharply in the side just as Sherlock said, "John, you probably want to shut up_ now_."

He looked incredulously up at the dark haired man, "Yeah, but come on..."

Sherlock just stared down at the army Doctor with a look that Abby could only describe as, 'Yes, I've used. No, we shouldn't talk about it. Now, can you please stop blithering?' She could hardly believe that Sherlock had, at one time, been a user herself, but it wasn't an impossiblething to believe – the man was far too skinny to not have had some kind of habit at one time or another.

"No...," Her brother muttered, his eyes moving over Sherlock's face in disbelief.

"What?"

"_You?_"

"Shut up!" Wishing for the conversation to come to an end, Sherlock turned to the lounging man, his irritation becoming noticeable once more. "I'm not your sniffer dog!"

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog." He replied, though, to Abby, it seemed as if he were fighting off a smile.

One of the kitchen doors slid further open to reveal a brown haired man, with a face that somewhat resembled a weasel, waving candidly with a gloved hand. It seemed as if the consulting detective's annoyance level sky-rocketed at the sight of him. "Anderson, what are _you _doing here on a drugs bust?" Sherlock demanded.

"Oh, I volunteered." He replied.

Abby was jolted from her concentration when one of the police officers walked past, bumping into her and thereby moving her forward a step into John's back. Her brother turned to steady her, shooting the policeman a look as he did. Finally taking a look at her, John was shocked to see that she looked exceptionally pale. "Jesus, Abby. Are you all right?"

Before she could answer, a woman with brown skin and dark curly hair drew both of their attention away when she held up a jar and asked, in a tone that just barely hid her disgust, "Are these _human _eyes?"

Sherlock was pacing in small circles and agitatedly demanded that the woman return the jar where she found it.

"They were in the microwave,"

"It's an experiment." He said as if she were simple minded

John turned his attention back to Abby who was pulling at her hair, unable to cope with so many people in one place and so close. She hurriedly assured her brother that she was all right and just need a bit of air. Running down the stairs and out of the flat, she sat down on the kerb and put her head between her knees, mumbling things to try getting her mind off of the chaos in the flat. "I'm fine. We're fine. Nothing can happen, nothing will happen. We're normal, _normal_."

* * *

Abigail didn't know how long she'd been outside, but when a black cab pulled up not very far from her, she thought it may be time for her to try venturing back into the flat. She stood and watched as the driver got out of the car and knocked on the door of 221B, frowning when she heard the man say he was there for Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson let him wait in the entry hall, but Abby stayed outside, trying to understand why on _Earth_ Sherlock would be ordering a taxi so late in the evening.

She saw the man move up the stairs, though she had seen no indication that Mrs. Hudson had come down or told _him _to come _up_.

After a few minutes the cabbie returned outside, smiling when he saw Abby standing near his cab. "Ah, Miss Watson. Nice of you to join me." He moved closer to the young woman, prompting her try widening the distance by backing up and being forced to stop when her back hit the cab. "Get in the car."

"Why would I –" She started before cutting herself off, eyes going slightly wide in realisation. "You're the murderer."

The cabbie nodded with a smug smile on his face, "Are you goin' to get into the cab, or do I 'ave to use force?" He then pulled out a gun, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Abby's eyes moved down to the gun and she was surprised to see that it didn't even look real. She almost wanted to laugh at the man, but decided that she really did not want to take that chance. _If my life's going end while I'm still in my twenties, it's because __**I **__chose it. Not some bastard cabbie_, she thought as she got into the back of the cab and shut the door.

The man smiled at her and tucked the gun away, moving in front of the window so that she couldn't be seen from 221B. She had been sitting in the cab for not even a minute when she heard him speak again, "Taxi for Sherlock 'olmes."

_If it's Sherlock he wants, then why the hell did he tell __**me **__to__ get in the cab? For that matter, why did kill those four people? _Abby then stopped trying to understand the mind of a killer; she may not have necessarily been mentally stable, but even _she _couldn't begin to understand the mindset of a murderer.

"Is this a confession?" She heard Sherlock say, though she couldn't see his face because of the cabbie's form still blocking the window.

"Oh yeah. And I'll tell you wha' else." He replied, "If you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet, and they can take me down, I promise."

"Why?"

"Cos you're not goin' to do that."

"Am I not?"

"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. 'olmes. I spoke to 'em...and they killed themselves." To Abby, the way in which he said this made it sound like he was gloating about that fact. "If you get the coppers now, I'll promise one thing – I will never tell you what I said."

The cabbie finally moved away from the window and walked around to the driver's side. Taking this chance, Abby ignored Sherlock for a moment and looked up to the lit window of 221B's living room and saw that John was watching, but was unable to see her.

* * *

Sherlock got into the cab and sat on the side opposite Abby, his mind thinking of multiple things at once. He knew that John had seen him get into the cab, but he doubted that he seen his little sister was already in the vehicle; he now knew that the cabbie was the serial killer, which, if he thought about it (which he won't, because it's a waste of his time), was sort of obvious – in hindsight only, of course. Turning his attention to the young woman opposite him, he quickly saw that she was unharmed, though still pale, as was noted when they had been in the flat. "Why are you here, Abby?" he quietly asked.

"Didn't have much of a choice. It was this, or get shot." She said with a wry smile.

"You could have screamed for help."

"Um, again – I didn't want to get shot. I'm not John; I wouldn't be able to sport a cool scar."

"It probably would have been a fatal shot."

Abby frowned, "So?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "So you would be dead. There wouldn't be time for it to heal and scar, someone would have sewn the wound closed."

"Oh...right." She was silent for a moment. "Have you done an experiment on that too?"

He looked her in the eye, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "Not yet, are you volunteering?"

She gave a mocking laugh before saying, "I didn't know you were funny."

Sherlock's eyes moved around the interior of the cab, his eyes studying a photograph framed near the dashboard. "How did you find me?" He asked the cabbie, no longer paying attention to the young woman.

"Oh, I recognised you!" He said, "Soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock 'olmes. I was warned about you. I've been on your website too, brilliant stuff! Loved it."

Ignoring the last few words, Sherlock looked outside the window before turning back to face the cabbie. "Who warned you about me?"

"Just someone out there who's noticed."

"Who?" He leaned forward in interest, not even realising he was invading Abby's personal space, so engrossed was he in his thoughts. "Who would notice me?"

Abby had half a mind to raise her hand, but immediately shoved that thought aside. _Maybe I'm going into shock? It's been a while since I've been in a state of shock, _she thought, watching as her left hand began to waver. Curling the hand into a fist, she looked up in time to see Sherlock glance away from her hand, a barely noticeable frown taking over his features.

"You're too modest, Mr. 'olmes," The cabbie said, making Abby quietly snort.

"I'm really not." Was Sherlock's quick rebuttal.

"Got yourself a fan." The whispered way in which the man said this, made a shiver run down her spine. It sounded almost sinister to her.

Sherlock, however, seemed to be more intrigued as well as confused. _Who could possibly be a fan of mine_, he thought, settling back in his seat. Trying to off play his curiosity, he nonchalantly, to best of his ability anyway, said, "Tell me more."

"That's all you're goin' to know." The man said, glancing at Sherlock in the rear-view mirror. "In _this_ lifetime."

Abby's eyes moved up to look at Sherlock, slightly alarmed, only to see that he looked wholly undeterred by such a comment – as if being threatened with death was the norm. _Though, I suppose, for him it is_

* * *

A few minutes after this exchange, the cab pulled up in between two brick buildings of slightly older architecture. Abby looked around in interest, but she had no idea of their current location; only that they were a decent distance from the flat.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked, though it seemed like he were just trying to humour the man.

The cabbie looked at the consulting detective, though it was easy for her see that he was not at all amused. "You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College." He stated, eyes moving over his surroundings before settling back on the shorter man. "Why here?"

"It's open. Cleaner's are in." He said with a barely there smile. "One thing about bein' a cabbie – you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out."

Abby shuddered at the thought of half the cabdrivers in London deciding to become serial killers. _I don't think I'll be taking cabs for a while..._

"And you just walk your victims in? How?" Sherlock queried, a slight frown puckering his brow as he tried thinking of how four of these scenarios played out. The cabbie pulled the gun from before, aiming at Sherlock's head and causing the consulting detective to give a quiet sigh of agitation. "Oh, dull."

"Don't worry, gets better."

"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint."

"I don't. It's much better than that." He then lowered his arm, "Don't need this with you, cos you'll follow me." He moved away from the door and walked a few steps to open the door of one of the college buildings.

"Sherlock! You're not really going in there are you?" Abby furiously whispered as they both got out of the car. The look he sent her way was quick to silence her, though she was beginning to wish she'd just stayed in the flat and had her bloody panic attack.

Sherlock walked ahead of her and slowly inside the building, when she moved to follow, the older man caught her attention. "Oh, Miss Watson?"

"Yes...?"

"You aren't truly necessary for this. Apologies." Though he didn't sound at all apologetic.

Then, all Abby could see was darkness quickly claiming her vision. She had just enough coherence to feel her body hit the pavement before she was falling into unconsciousness.


	6. The Toff With the Umbrella

**i am _so _sorry for how long it took for this to be put up. in-between trying to figure out college stuff, medical things, and the string of car collisions in my town, which my mom was in one of them, so i've been dealing with that by stress cooking/baking and just plain stressing the hell out, i haven't really had the time, or even the drive, really, to write and post i just...could not focus and i'm sorry for that, AND for the fact that this chapter is so short.**

**and to** ryleyrooter**, i'm glad that you like my story and trust me, i have no intentions of ever discontinuing this story, i love it too much!**

**Enjoy this chapter while i try writing up another, and please review and excuse any mistakes you may find and this stupidly long AN.**

* * *

John Watson had followed the MePhone GPS to Roland-Kerr College and saw the black cab Sherlock had got into outside of Baker Street. He was unsure of which building they had entered, but ultimately chose the building to his left after taking several moments to think.

Upon walking closer, he could see a body propped up against the side of the vehicle. Hesitantly, the army Doctor moved forward until he could clearly see that it was Abigail's inert form. "Shit, Abby!" He moved at a faster pace to his sister, kneeling in front of her and immediately checking for a pulse, breathing a harsh sigh of relief when he could feel the steady thumping against his fingertips; it was slightly slower than it should be, but not to a dangerous extent.

John quickly checked her for an injury and found a small spot of blood at the right side of her head. Looking to the college building and then back to his sister, he dropped a light kiss to the top of her head and moved toward the building at a run; confident that there would be paramedics accompanying Lestrade to help her.

* * *

Abby awoke in the back of an ambulance, feeling as if there were an army of drums in her head. Groaning, she sat up and watched as an ugly orange blanket fell to her lap. Looking around, Abby saw that Sherlock wasn't too far away and was talking with the silver haired man from earlier in the flat. Swatting away the paramedics that were attempting to get her to lie back, she stood, valiantly fighting off the urge to sway, and stepped down from the ambulance.

Catching up to the dark haired man just as he was about to walk away, she held a hand to the side of her head and spoke, "You know, you just should not wear orange."

Glancing down at the young woman, Sherlock smirked. "And what, exactly, should I put in it's place?"

"You should swap with me and nurse this stupid goose egg I've got," She muttered, glaring half-heartedly at the man.

He held up the police tape after throwing the shock blanket into one of the police cars, allowing her to move forward first before ducking beneath it himself. Feeling the oddest sensation, he watched as John pulled Abby to him, his fingers roaming deftly around her head and stopping when she hissed in pain. Choosing to ignore it, Sherlock turned his attention to the fact that John was, without a doubt, the culprit to shoot the murderous cab driver.

Abby leaned wearily against John's arm as he began to speak to the consulting detective, "Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining...everything. The two pills... Dreadful business, isn't it? Dreadful." He said, doing his very best to remain nonchalant, though it was easy for Abby to tell that he was lying.

"Good shot." Sherlock stated.

Abby could feel John grow slightly tense and moved to try standing upright on her own, watching the interaction between the two men but paying hardly the right amount of attention to what they were saying.

"Yes. Yes, must have been. Through that window." John said, looking to his slightly swaying sister and back to the taller man.

"Well, _you'd _know." He responded, fighting the urge to smirk at the now silent army Doctor. "Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

John cleared his throat and looked around him nervously, wanting to be sure there was no one around to hear that he had been the one to shoot the cab driver. At this action, Sherlock gave a minute frown, asking if the man was all right. "Yes, of course I'm all right."

"Well, you have just killed a man,"

"Yes, I..." Stopping himself immediately, he looked up at the dark haired man and nodded. "That's true isn't it? But, he wasn't a very nice man."

"No...no, he wasn't, really, was he?"

"Frankly, a bloody awful cabbie."

Sherlock chuckled at this and began to walk forward, John and Abby quick to follow. "That's true, he was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took to get us here."

Sherlock and Abby smiled as John laughed, though was quick to stop himself as he looked around. "Stop! We can't giggle, it's a crime scene. Stop it."

"You're the one who shot him, I mean...,"

"Keep your voice down!" John whispered as the trio walked past Sergeant Donovan, who's eyes followed them by. "Sorry, it's just, erm...nerves, I think." He said to her.

"Sorry," Sherlock chipped in.

Abby rolled her eyes and muttered, "I'm not." Receiving an elbow to the side from John and a minuscule smile from their far taller compatriot, Abby turned to her brother and stuck out her tongue.

"You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?" John suddenly asked, coming to a halt as he did.

The consulting detective turned to face him, though was hardly looking the shorter man in the eye as he spoke. "Course I wasn't. Biding my time... Knew you'd turn up."

"No you didn't. That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot." Both Watsons answered.

Sherlock's lips turned up in a half smile as he looked to his shorter companions, "Dinner?"

"Starving." John said.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese. Stays open 'til two." Sherlock stated as they resumed walking. "You can always tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle."

"Sherlock! That's him, that's man I was talking to you about." John said, motioning to a very posh looking man that had just got out of a black car nearby.

"I know _exactly _who that is." Sherlock quickly walked towards the unknown man, his body language almost immediately becoming hostile.

Abby leaned over to her brother and muttered, "And you didn't take his money? What the hell is _he_ going to do with it!?"

"Abby!" John's voice was stern as he glanced at her, causing the young woman's eyes to roll in annoyance.

"So, another case cracked." The unknown toff began, "How very public-spirited. Though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, his voice just barely hiding the disdain he felt.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your _'concern'_."

"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough...no." Was Sherlock's immediate sarcastic response.

"We have more in common than you'd like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer." The man's tone finally changing from its oddly soothing cadence to slight irritation. "And you know how it always upset Mummy."

At this John and Abby exchanged a frown of confusion, both thinking the same question: _Who the hell was "Mummy"?_

"_I _upset her? Me? It wasn't _me _that upset her, _Mycroft_."

"No. No, wait..." John interrupted. "Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

"Mother. Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft." The curly haired man informed. "Putting on weight again?" He then snidely asked.

"Losing it, in fact." Mycroft said, undeterred by the childish question.

"He's your _brother_?" Abby spoke up, her eyes moving between the two taller men; one's jaw set in annoyance, and the other with a look of slight condescension that only an older sibling could perfect.

"Course he's my brother." Sherlock responded as if it should have been obvious from the very beginning.

"So he's not..." John started before pausing, still largely confused.

"Not what?" Sherlock and Mycroft were now both watching the army Doctor, as he thought on the new revelation.

"I don't know...criminal mastermind?" He continued, a frown on his face as he tried processing that particular piece of information.

"Close enough."

"For goodness' sake, I occupy a _minor _position in the British Government." Mycroft commented.

"He _is _the British Government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." Mycroft looked as if he were almost regretting showing up here when Sherlock continued with, "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home – you know what it does for the traffic." The consulting detective lightly took hold of Abby's wrist and dragged her along as he walked away.

Abby was quiet for a moment, staring up at him as they walked, failing to notice that John was still chatting with Mycroft. "Just...out of curiosity...where did your mother find your names?" At his minute glare, she quickly added, "Not that I'm criticising them or anything. I just...I mean..." After floundering for a reasonable explanation, her cheeks went pink as she shrugged. "I've a head wound."

"Is that the best excuse you've got?" He said, an eyebrow arched as he looked down at the young woman.

"It was either that, or I kicked you in the shin and tried running for my life."

Sherlock chuckled at that and looked forward again, "In your state? You wouldn't make it to the end of the road before you dropped."

She glared up at the man but knew that he was right; her head was still driving her mad, though, luckily, it had faded into a dull throb and her nausea was all but gone, she knew she wouldn't be able to outrun Sherlock now, or _ever_ actually. "I'm not saying you're right, but I _am_ saying that you're not wrong." At the smirk on his lips she gently shoved him away. "Ponce."

Before he could respond, John quickly caught up to them and started walking to Abby's right. "So, dim sum."

"Mmm! I can always predict the fortune cookies." Sherlock said.

"No you can't."

"Almost can." He amended. "You did get shot, though."

"Sorry?"

"In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound,"

"Oh! Yeah, shoulder."

"Shoulder! I thought so."

"No you didn't."

"The left one."

"Lucky guess."

"I never guess."

"Yes you do." John mockingly said with a smile. "What're you so happy about?"

"Moriarty."

Abby raised an eyebrow, "And that is...?"

"I've absolutely no idea." Sherlock said, sounding almost giddy as he did.

As they continued on down the road, a thought suddenly came to Abby's mind. "Oi! Sherlock," She held out her left hand, palm up. "gimme."

He raised an eyebrow, "Give you what?"

"I saw the look on your face back there. John's got one, I want one."

Sighing in fake exasperation, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a black ID wallet. Placing it in her outstretched palm, he tried to stop himself from smiling, and failed almost _abyssmaly_ at the task.

Curling her hand around the wallet, she chuckled in triumph and opened it. Confused, she read the card on the inside and looked up at Sherlock with a small frown. Before she could say anything however, he placed a discreet finger at his lips in a motion for her to be quiet.

John, noticing the action, looked between his sister and the taller man. "What is it? What did he give you?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing. Just another of Lestrade's ID wallets." She mumbled in response as she put the wallet into the pocket of her jeans. As they continued on their way to  
Baker Street, she thought of why Sherlock had given her a different item than the one she had originally thought he had in his possession; not that she minded, really, but she wondered what in the world she was going do with an all access ID of _Mycroft's _as she had barely met the man, and she hardly thought she would be going anywhere so hard up with security that she would ever need such a thing.


End file.
